


cellar

by worstgirl



Series: matilda/bmc [2]
Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Matilda the Musical - Minchin/Kelly
Genre: Child Abuse, Claustrophobia Warning, Did squipbull kill his dad?, M/M, Nightmares, Trigger Warnings, You Decide, can we see rich?, did he kill himself?, emotional mental and physical abuse, endgame deere, it’s acrobat story iv but worse, me:, this is just angst with a slightly happy ending, you mean more jerm but this time angsty?, y’all:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22458592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worstgirl/pseuds/worstgirl
Summary: Through his tears, he said the letters he spelled, barely above a whisper. “C-R-E-E-P.”
Relationships: Jake Dillinger/Jeremy Heere, Jeremy Heere & Jeremy Heere’s Dad, Jeremy Heere & Jeremy Heere’s Squip
Series: matilda/bmc [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615513
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	cellar

**Author's Note:**

> please for the love of god read the tags before reading, they have important trigger warnings

It was cold in the cellar. The boy sat there, knees to his chest, eyes red from crying so hard. He didn’t know why he still cried, why he still let his uncle push him around like this. His knees were skinned, and he doubted the dust collecting in the sticky red residue was much help to the healing process.

The small pipe he’d found on the scummy floor, slick with perspiration, dragged through the layered dust. He was good at spelling, he knew. His teacher always said he was the best speller in the class, as long as it wasn’t out loud. He was always scared to speak up. His words got trapped in his throat most times, making him feel pathetic.

Through his tears, he said the letters he spelled, barely above a whisper. “C.”

_ The suffocating darkness of the cupboard, holding his breath and pressing his hand to his mouth to keep his sobs from alerting his uncle to his terror. Fear made little boys weak, he’d said.  _

“R.”

_ The sound of book pages ripping and fluttering to the floor, one by one, punctuated by the shouts of all the mean words of his uncle, all the insults the boy bore for nearly every day of his short life. Books were useless drivel, he’d said. _

“E.”

_ The feeling of the thick belt snapping against his skin, making him cry out. Wrestling belts left interesting welts on little boy’s skin that were difficult to hide under long sweaters. Injuries just meant that he wasn’t strong enough, he’d said.  _

“E.”

_ The silence that choked him until he couldn’t breathe every time his father asked him what he did that day at dinner, how well his uncle was treating him. The fear of being a burden or causing trouble felt like vomit. He’d do worse if the boy spoke, he’d said.  _

“P.”

He stared at the curves and corners, thinking of everything he’d been through. Under his sleeve, he could see the welts of purple and red and yellow bruise marks peeking out. He pulled the sweater down further, wiping away his tears with the fabric that covered his hand now. He shut his eyes to stop them from falling further, only serving to thrust himself back into memories.

_“Filthy, nasty little creep! I shall crush you, pound you, I shall grind you to dust under my boot, you will not be allowed to live in the footsteps of your miserable father! You are whiny, you are pathetic, you are filthy and weak and wrong. You believe that your precious storybooks will save you, but you cannot truly believe that you’re a hero, boy, you are a filthy useless little toad! You make me sick, you make me wish you were dead, you are no longer fit to be in this world, you miserable excuse for a child, your own mother died to have you, and this is how you repay her, by being a worthless slug that cannot even speak a single sentence without st-st-stuttering—“_

The boy let out a sob at the memory of his uncle’s words, louder than he’d meant. 

Somewhere above him, the door had opened. He didn’t know how long ago, but horror filled his gut until pounding noises flooded the cellar. He covered his ears tightly, whimpering softly. It was too loud, he couldn’t breathe. But whoever was trying to open the door was clearly without the key. 

Then in an instant, light flooded in, and the boy could see the man at the top of the stairs, like an angel come down from heaven. At the sight of the small child, the man nearly flew down the steps and pulled the boy into his arms, hugging him as tightly as he could, as if letting go would let him slip away. 

“Don’t cry, I’m here.” The man’s voice sounded choked up, like he was holding back tears himself. He looked clearly upset— bedraggled beard, dust staining the knees of his suit, tears from his eyes. “I am so sorry, Jeremy, I didn’t mean to leave you alone. Nothing can hurt you anymore, I’m here. I’m here.”

Jeremy buried his face in his father’s shoulder, trying not to cry more. He could feel the scarf around his shoulders, the white one that his mother used to wear that he’d heard about in stories. 

“I didn’t mean to leave you, I was so— so wrapped up in grief for your mother, that I forgot what matters most. I’ll do all I can to make it up to you.” 

Jeremy pulled away, his voice soft as he reached up, brushing at his father’s face. “Please— Please don’t cry, I’m alright.” He murmured, his voice soft. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to upset you.” So much for that, now both of them were crying. Jeremy felt himself picked up by his father, who carried him up the stairs and into the light. He hid his face in the crook of his neck, taking a shuddering breath. 

He felt so guilty, especially when his father kept apologizing, his words tearful, but his eyes grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep, never to see his father again.

Jeremy sat bolt upright in bed, tears streaming down his face and his breath heaving.

He wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was free, he didn’t need to respond to his horrific uncle a moment longer. For all his father’s promises of never leaving him alone, he was still, in effect, horrifically alone. It stung, leaving him breathless and tearful and sitting and hugging his knees like he’d used to do to try and keep the nails and spikes and bits of broken glass from tugging at his clothes and skin.

He felt arms slip around his waist, looking down to see tousled brown hair and strong arms and the long nose of Jake. 

Then, taking a deep, calming breath, he lay back down, letting himself be pulled neatly against his chest. Though it was cold outside, and in his brain, this was safe. This was what feeling loved felt like. And he didn’t need any promises to stay, any spoken words to prove that Jake would be there. The warm hands holding him close and the slight pressure of the other man’s chin on his curls was enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> i be like *writes nothing for a month then posts two fics in less than 24 hours* 
> 
> like they’re shorter than usual and this is me being fucking emotional and emo but shush i like this writing if not the content. 
> 
> anyways its 10:25 pm and i’m sad as fuck so i’m gonna just now go to sleep lemme know if u enjoyed this stay safe stay wonderful loves
> 
> ~ percy


End file.
